Chapter 1

Eleanor Sterling sat across from Maya in the opulent penthouse living room.

The air was cold, despite the late spring sunshine pouring through the floor-to-ceiling windows.

Eleanor's smile did not reach her eyes.

She pushed a check across the polished mahogany table.

"Five million dollars, Miss Rodriguez."

Her voice was smooth, like expensive silk.

"For you to disappear from Alex's life. Leave the country. Permanently."

Eleanor's gaze swept over Maya's simple dress, a silent judgment.

"He has a certain... image to maintain. You understand."

Maya looked at the check. The number had many zeros.

It was more money than she had ever imagined.

She felt a hollowness inside, a quiet ache.

She met Eleanor's expectant gaze.

"Okay."

Eleanor's perfectly sculpted eyebrow rose a fraction.

She had expected tears, arguments, perhaps a demand for more.

Maya's calm acceptance was unsettling.

"You'll sign a non-disclosure, of course."

"Of course." Maya's voice was flat.

Later, Maya walked through the silent penthouse.

It was vast, cold, filled with things that were not hers.

She picked up a framed photo from a side table.

It was her and Alex, taken months ago in their tiny Brooklyn apartment.

His arm was around her, his smile wide and genuine.

The Alex in the photo was gone.

The memory of him, however, was vivid.

Rain lashed against the grimy window of Maya's old Brooklyn apartment.

She had been working her shift at the diner, tired, her feet aching.

Cutting through the alley, a shortcut home, she saw him.

A crumpled figure in the shadows, blood dark on his face and clothes.

He had no ID, no wallet, just the expensive, torn suit.

His eyes, when he opened them, were blank.

"Who... who am I?" he'd whispered, his voice raspy.

She took him in.

Her apartment was barely big enough for one, a tiny, run-down space.

But she couldn't leave him there.

They lived on the edge of poverty.

Alex, with no memory of his past, took any job he could find.

Dishwasher. Bike messenger.

He never complained.

He was kind, gentle, his eyes full of a simple devotion that warmed her.

A deep, pure love grew between them, built on shared struggles and whispered dreams.

He saved for months, small amounts tucked away.

One day, he came home with a small, velvet box.

Inside was a vintage silver locket.

He'd seen her admiring it in a pawn shop window.

It reminded her of one her late grandmother owned.

"For you, Maya," he'd said, his voice thick with emotion.

He held her close that night.

"I want to remember you always, Maya Rodriguez," he whispered against her skin.

The next week, he came home with a fresh tattoo over his heart.

Her initials. M.R.

It was red and swollen, but he smiled through the pain.

"See? You're with me. Always."

Then, the headaches started.

Flashes of images he couldn't place.

A chance encounter on the street, a face from a forgotten life.

His memory returned like a flood, drowning the man she knew.

Alexander Sterling III, sole heir to Sterling Industries.

The world shifted.

He moved her from the tiny Brooklyn apartment to this lavish Manhattan penthouse.

But the Alex she loved vanished.

He became cold, distant.

His days were filled with corporate takeovers, board meetings, the heavy weight of his family name.

He wore expensive suits now, his hair perfectly styled.

The easy smile was gone, replaced by a guarded, serious expression.

She tried to talk to him, to reach the man she knew.

He would pat her hand, a dismissive gesture.

"I'm busy, Maya. We'll talk later."

Later never came.

Then the gossip columns started.

Victoria "Tori" Van derbilt.

Childhood friend. Daughter of a rival tycoon.

"Power Couple in the Making."

Photos of them at galas, charity events, exclusive restaurants.

Tori, blonde, beautiful, perfectly at home in his world.

Alex, smiling at Tori in a way he no longer smiled at Maya.

Each picture was a fresh stab of pain.

Maya knew.

She was the mud, he was the cloud.

She was the dust, he was the moon.

Their simple, pure love couldn't survive in this rarefied air.

It was suffocating her.

The five million dollars.

Paris.

A dream she had once shared with the Alex from Brooklyn.

A dream to study art, to finally become the sculptor she yearned to be.

She would use his mother's money to escape his world, and to build her own.

She finished her packing quickly.

She needed to talk to Alex one last time.

Not to plead, not to change his mind.

But to say goodbye to the ghost of the man she had loved.

His secretary told her he was at 'Le Ciel Étoilé', a Michelin-star restaurant.

With Miss Van derbilt, of course.

Maya found them at a secluded table.

Tori was laughing, her hand on Alex's arm.

Alex looked up, saw Maya.

His face froze. Annoyance flickered in his eyes, then embarrassment.

He stood abruptly.

"Maya? What are you doing here?" His voice was sharp, cold.

He glanced around, as if afraid someone would see them together.

"Are you following me?"

The accusation stung.

Tori's smile was pure sugar, her eyes like ice.

"Alex, darling, don't be rude."

She turned to Maya, her voice dripping with false sweetness.

"Maya, is it? Please, join us. There's plenty of room."

Maya wanted to run, but her feet felt rooted to the floor.

Before she could refuse, Tori was signaling the waiter.

"Another setting, please. And we'll have the Grand Seafood Platter for our guest."

Tori smiled at Maya. "You like seafood, don't you?"

Maya's blood ran cold.

A severe shellfish allergy.

Alex knew.

The Alex from Brooklyn knew. He'd once rushed her to the emergency room after she'd unknowingly eaten contaminated broth. He'd held her hand, his face pale with fear, until the doctors said she was okay.

She looked at Alex now.

He met her gaze, then quickly looked away.

He said nothing.

The silence was a physical blow.

The waiter placed the enormous platter in front of Maya.

Shrimp, lobster, crab, oysters.

The smell alone made her stomach churn.

Tori watched her, a predatory glint in her eyes.

Alex stared at his wine glass, his jaw tight.

He did not speak. He did not intervene.

The man she loved, the man who had her initials tattooed over his heart, watched her drown and did nothing.

That was when she knew.

The Alex from Brooklyn was truly dead.

This cold stranger had taken his place.